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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



A Bunch of Poppies 



Mary Adams Jameson 



t 



CINCINNATI 
PRESS OF JENNINGS AND GRAHAM 



[UBHARY of CONGRESS 
TwoGoDies Received i 

MAY 11 1906 

/(..CopyrigrM Entry 
CLASS Ct, XXc. iMo, 

COPY Ba 



vaob 



COPYRIGHT, 1906, 

BY 

MARY ADAMS JAMESON 






i»jjtfs:e Kite sgmpatljg a;tti«: ItJiiijt^ iteiittiuxtt 



The Winding Stair. 




OWN a winding stair 
None but I can see, 
One, with golden hair, 
Cometh noiselessly — 
Comes and sits with me. 

And her eyes are blue 
As the summer skies ; 

And within them new 
Heavenly rapture lies, 
And a glad surprise. 

I can only gaze 
At the vision sweet, 

In a rapt amaze ; 

But her smile, replete 
With a love complete, 
5 



Folds me in its splendor; 
While the room is filled 

With a radiance tender, 
And my pulse is stilled — 
And my being thrilled. 

Then she talks with me 
In the old, sweet way; 

Soothes and counsels me, 
How I may not say — 
Now nor any day. 

All my heart a-throb, 
Pulses quivVing, too; 

Cry I with a sob — 
"Mother! Is it you? 
Mother! Tell me true." 



up the winding stair, 

Through the dome of blue, 

She with golden hair — 
She, my vision true, 
Floateth from my view. 




Bessie and I. 

OU Moon ! Have you got any God in the 

sky? 
That we should be scorned by passers- 
by, 
And left in the street to starve and die — 
Bessie and I? 

WeVe been thrust away from many a door, 
And we only asked the alms of the poor, 
A crust of bread and a bed on the floor — 
Bessie and I. 

We're hungry and tired, and sore are our feet, 

From treading so long up and down the street, 

Through the blinding storm of snow and sleet — 

Bessie and I. 

8 



I guess I'll make us a bed in the snow, 
For Sissy's so tired, and then you must know 
In all this city we've nowhere to go — 
Bessie and I. 

We'd go to Heaven, if it wasn't so high. 
But maybe the angels will come, by-and-by, 
And carry us up to the bright, blue sky — 
Bessie and I? 




Life's Sacrament. 

EAR Love ! I'm sitting very humble in 
my place, 
So very humble, because loving so ; 
And Love's contentment lies upon my 
face, 
And folds about my heart its summer glow. 

Since once you folded down, in other days, 
Upon my mouth Love's holy eucharist, 

Dear, all my heart is bare unto thy gaze. 
As thine to me is clear and passion-kissed. 

I crave no higher meed of fame than this ; — 
"She holds his heart with modest, wifely 
grace. 
Her. sceptre falls as softly as a kiss ; 

She makes her home her husband's resting- 
place." 

lO 



'Tis sweeter than men's praise, this wifely 
crown, 
Thus placed on my young head by such as 
thou ; 
Upon whose soul God's truth is folded down, 
Like fruitage on an Autumn-laden bough 

Henceforth we two, whose souls have newly 

kissed. 

Will stand up high above the social-wrongs. 

That warp the truth and mar love's eucharist; — - 

The world is sad that should be full of 

songs. 

We will not wander in Its dusty lanes, 

But walk where souls grow purer day by 
day. 
Outside the gates of worldly lusts and gains, 
Along a better and more sacred way. 

II 



We will not clasp hands with creeds that lead 
astray, 
But take the W^ord and do the best we 
know; 
As there's one God, so there is one true way ; 
We '11 seek for that, and let the others go. 

And thus our lives, love-scented, sweet as 
musk. 

Shall glide as glad as any meadow-brook 
Slips silver-footed through the fretted dusk, 

Though Sinai's thunder all our heaven shook. 

And so, dear heart, our love will ever grow 

Till rosy morn shall wax to cloudless noon. 
And noon shall wane to evening's hallowed 
glow. 
And night shall gather round our lives o'er- 
soon. 

22 




No Vacant Chairs. 

HERE are, methinks, no vacant chairs. 
The air is full of whirring wings, 
And vibrant songs that nobody sings, 
And footfalls on the creaking stairs. 

So like and yet unlike the lost 

They come and go. With earthly ear 
Their spirit-feet you may not hear. 

But only feel a touch of frost 

Blow past you through the open door; 
And could your earthly eyes but see 
Their forms the vacant chairs would be 

Still occupying as of yore. 



13 




Crazy Jane. 

DAPPLED sky hangs overhead, 

And golden lies the air; 
The maples flame a russet-red, 
With scarlet here and there, 
And fling their pools of shadows wide 
Along the grain field's yellow tide. 

Adown the lane, with flying feet 

And wild, disheveled hair, 
And in her eyes, once calm and sweet, 

A panting, dumb despair. 
Flees Crazy Jane, her pallid face 
Bereft of all its olden grace. 

What cares she for a dappled sky— 

The maple's flaming red? 
She only hears a wailing cry 

And sees an empty bed; 
She only knows that food was high, 
And then — and then some passers-by — 

H 



She never knew the story well, 
A madness clutched her brain; 

She only knows what some folks tell, 
And croons it o'er again; 

Then dashes madly down the lane 

To find her baby — " Bonnie Jean." 

The children taunt her as they pass, 
And, laughing, clutch her gown; 

She flings them curses on the grass 
With ugly baleful frown — 

She tears it loose with might and main. 

And speeds her on her way again. 

Across the meadows, dewy sweet, 
With slow and halting tread ; 

The daisies crushed beneath her feet, 
No longer fancy led, 

Comes sorrow-laden Crazy Jane, 

And creepeth homeward up the lane. 



15 




When Baby Leaves the House. 

LIFT it up from its satin bed, 

Only a curl of gold; 
But I see again the burnished head 

WeVe missed a year from the fold. 

We had a year and a day to love her, 
Nor thought we should be bereft ; 

The daisies blossom and lean above her — 
Only a curl is left. 

Sometimes I reach through the dark and grope 

In the crib beside my bed; 
There's nothing there but an empty hope — 

Our little ewe-lamb has fled. 

i6 



They say she lives up there in the skies- 
Ah, God I We know that is so; 

But we miss — we miss the blue of her eyes- 
The mouth that was like a bow. 

The heart must ache and the tears must fall- 
(The rooms are still as a mouse — ) 

For joy goes out with the funeral pall, 
when baby leaves the house. 



17 




On the Border. 

Y hair is turning gray, love, 

White threads among the brown; 
The neighbors used to say, love, 
No other lass in town 
Had such a glory-crown. 

How many years have flown, love, 
Since you and I were wed? 

How many tears we've sown, love, 
Upon the daisied bed. 
Where lie our treasured dead! 

Our hearts can ne'er forget, love, 
The graves, they number five; 

I think I see them yet, love — 
Our bonny, merry five — 
The room is all alive. 
i8 



mmmsxeiBBBm 



They beckon me away, love, 
Their faces stoop to me ; 

But I would rather stay, love, 
With you, if it could be. 
Till both should go, you see. 

My eyes are growing dim, love. 
Your face I can not see ; 

And One, that's like to Him, love, 
Is standing close by me — 
His gleaming robe I see. 

Across the shining sea, love — 
(Our God, He knoweth best 

What's best for you and me, love — ) 
I'll wait you with the rest, 
For God, He — knoweth — best. 



19 



lUMJM-J igB 



My King. 




E looked at me so gravely sweet, 

My sinful self stood bare; 
My eyes slow lifted His to meet — 
When lol beyond compare 
His love shone everywhere. 

I looked about me for my sin, 
His hand had covered it; 

My timid faith crept up and in — 
His Great Heart hovered it — 
His love, too, suffered it. 

And since my faith has older grown, 
It's anchored fast and tight. 

And now I see all thickly sown 
With stars the blackest night — 
Beyond the red dawn's light. 

20 



O, Christ I My King! Steadfast keep me, 

As Thou didst those of old 
Whom God gave Thee — till I shall see 

Thy glory light the streets of gold, 

Life's story done and told. 



21 




Mustered Out. 

OWN in the woods we found him, 
Where he had fought and fell — 

Just as the death-chill bound him 
Fast with its icy spell. 

Down where the guns had thundered, 
Belching their hail of wrath. 

Piling the dead unnumbered 
Right in the battle's path. 

Down in the fragrant grasses. 
Where were the faces of men 

Turned to the sky in masses- 
Faces of dead men then. 

Shot to death in the forehead — 
Here's where the ball went in, 

Leaving the face unmarred. 
Glancing out at the chin. 

22 



God! and here is another 
Ghastly wound in the chest; 

Was there a comrade brother 
To catch his last bequest! 

Brownest of boyish faces — 

Browned with the wind and rain; 

Sweet were the lips whose graces 
Curved with a touch of pain. 

Death was his badge of renown, 
Smooth was his face as a girPs; 

Only a showing of down 
Taking the hue of the curls 

Over the wan brow clustered. 

Youngest of freedom's sons! 
Grandly here was he mustered 

Out by the mouths of the guns. 



23 




Twixt Her and Me. 

E stood knee-deep in poppy beds, 

A tiny beck between; 
The blue sky hung above our heads- 
One light — one darker sheen. 
And all the world, so fair and wide. 
Seemed made for us — none else beside. 

I wove a chaplet for her hair — 

A golden poppy-crown; 
She gaily tossed it in the air, 

And smiled to see my frown. 
Her tawny tresses, finely spun, 
Shone red like copper in the sun. 

"Nay, nay! The yellow crown," I said 

With eager, ardent speech, 
"Just suits, dear love, your bonny head 

And skin like down of peach." 
At which the brown eyes drooped low. 
And crimson dyed her brow of snow. 



24 



Our happy laughter tore in shreds, 
The beck so wide had grown; 

With faces palHd as the dead's 
On either brink we stood alone ; 

We eager leaned and tried to reach 

Across the flood with gasping speech. 

We raced the waters heel and heel — 
The flood grew wider — wider; 

Appalled, I saw her sudden reel — 
The poppy-crown beside her; 

I heard a raven's far, hoarse cry. 

And ashen clouds went skurrying by. 

I caught, beyond the maddening swirl, 
Her face turned backward to me — 

A waving hand — a tawny curl. 

That sent the wild blood through me ; 

Then wide as death 'twixt her and me 

Gray mist inwrapped a grayer sea. 



25 




Old Letters. 

TAKE them up here one by one 
And read them calmly through; 

Some foolish things were said and done 
By me as well as you. 



We'll let them pass. We've older grown, 

And wiser, too, I ween; 
We plucked the flower fully-blown, 

And not the bud between. 

We walked apart long years ago. 

Our paths have never met; 
We were content to have it so; 

We will not now regret. 

26 



We each have ties more sacred grown 

Than any formed of yore; 
And with the flower fully blown 

Have children at our door. 

And so I burn them one by one, 
These letters tied with blue — 

The foolish things once said and done 
By me as well as you. 



27 



Sweetheart. 

HE world's been never the same, sweet- 
heart ! 

Never the same, 

Since they tucked you away in your 
coffin-bed, 




With a snowy shaft piled high at your head, 
Carved with your name. 

My life's been leaden and gray, sweetheart! 

Leaden and gray, 
Since your spirit-boat went sailing through 
The gleaming skies in a rift of blue. 

One bitter day. 

My hair is sifted with snow, sweetheart! 

Sifted with snow; 

For the years have pelted me hard — and you — 

I'm glad you are safe in that harbor true, 

And could not know. 
28 



Sometimes I'm seeing your face, sweetheart! 

Set in the sky; 
You are drawing me up to the rift of blue, 
And all my heart is there with you — 

Aye, and for aye. 



29 



■a^^^nani^BB 




Baby-Boo. 

YOUNG moon swings asleep in the 
skies, 

Baby-boo! 
The poppies are blinking and shutting 
their eyes — 

Why haven't you? 

The lambs are cuddled warm in their bed, 

Baby-boo! 

They're tired of play, and their prayers are 

said — 

How about you? 

The firefly glows and the cricket sings, 

Baby-boo! 
The birds have their heads tucked under their 

wings — 

So ought you. 
30 



■*"»«»— 



The sandman's coming. Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! 

Baby-boo! 
Be still as a mouse, dear. Don't you know 

He's after you? 

The sandman has come. Your lids drop down. 

Baby-boo! 
He'll carry you away to Shut-e3^e Town — 

Good-bve to vou! 



31 



9 



The Missel Thrush. 

SONGSTER of the English Woods! 

O lover of the mistletoe! 
It is thy dauntless spirit, bird, 

That charms and thrills us so. 



When all thy woods are thunder-riven-, 
And storm-clouds sweep the sky; 

The louder — clearer — richer — sweeter, 
Thy song mounts up on high. 

Lord God! Give me such spirit-wings, 

When Sinai's thunders roll, 
That I may brush the upper heights 

With song-bliss in my soul. 



32 



The Seedtime of Love. 




OWN in the meadow a bobolink's swing- 
ing, 
The tall grass swayeth and bendeth 
quite over; 
Only a minute he leaves off his singing, 

To pick out the heart of a red-eyed clover. 

Robins are wantoning — doves are a-cooing; 

A bluejay is calling his mate in a tree; 
Softly she croons to her own undoing — 

A daring and ardent lover is he. 

Cuckoo buds gleam in the meadow grasses, 
The cuckoo is leaning from copse and brake; 

Dippeth the swallow low as he passes — 
A long, forked shadow glides in his wake. 
3 33 



Out in the orchard the fruit buds are swelling, 
The thorn-tree is white with its drifted snow; 

Donald and Dolly, the old story telling, 
Lean each to each in the garden below. 

Saucy and thievish — a greedy getter, 
The jackdaw croaks on the wall above; 

What does it matter? He knows no better; 
The coming of spring is the seedtime of love. 



34 




My Angels. 

UT from the blue of the sky 

Two angels are looking at me; 
Their place Is so far and high, 
No other their faces can see — 
No other — save only me. 

The one has the pale-gold hair, 
The other is darker than she; 

But both are so heavenly fair; 
I know them as well as can be — 
My angels — and they know me. 

Out from the blue of the sky 
My angels are coming to me; 

The heavens no longer are high — 
But closer — ah! close as can be 
I hug the dear one at my knee. 
35 



iuiiuuiiMumji..n*J 



As fair as the lily is she; 

Her face wears a hushed surprise, 

And ever she runs to my knee — 
A questioning look in her eyes — 
To ask what they do in the skies. 



A touch like the frost of night, 
An icy wind sweeps by! 

A flash of luminous white — 
And now three angels have I 
Instead of two in the sky. 



36 



99 




"Teddy. 

(As Governor of New York.) 

OD fashioned a man after His own 
plan, 
With the soul of the East and the 
heart of the West; 
With sinews of steel to throttle the wrong — 
To pinion the Beast with stanchion and thong. 
A man for the need. Comprehend if you can 
The people have wrongs that must be re- 
dressed. 

He stepped from his Maker's open palm 
Full-girded and armed for the righteous 
fray; 
His blows fell as hot as the breath of hell — 

37 



The Beast showed his teeth, snarled, up-rose 

and fell 
Before the white-heat of omnipotent calm ; 
And "Teddy" — the fighter— had won the 
day. 



38 



Tired Out. 




HE red dawn creepeth up the East, 

As I to Thee ; 
The night was long and chill and dark — 
I could not see. 
Nor moon nor star lit up the sky — 
Lord God I Lord God! Thou heardst my cry. 

The red sun droppeth in the west — 

Ah, me! Ah, me! 
Tired out as any child at play, 

This heart of me. 
Too tired — too tired to even weep — 
Lord God ! Lord God I Wilt give me sleep ? 



39 



Little Dear. 




HAT are you thinking of, little 
dear? — 
You look so wise and pucker your 
brow 
Into a wrinkle so funny and queer. 
What are you thinking of anyhow? 

Clutching the sunbeams with soft, pink fists. 
Talking a language that nobody knows; 

Winning your way like a knight in the lists — 
Wearing your favors of dimple and rose. 

Dropping white lids o'er your blue-bell eyes 
You sleep with never a thought of fear, 

While the angels lean from the bending skies — 
What do they tell in your shell-like ear? 

40 



We may never know, little dear, little dear ! 

Though you try to tell in your own sweet 
way; 
For you speak a language so funny and queer. 

We could never learn it forever and a day. 



42 



Hel 



en. 




LITHELY sang the meadow-lark. 

The sky was so blue; 
j 'Twixt the rifts of light and dark 
Swallows sailed through; 
Gay the crowds within the park. 
None gayer than you, 
Helen! Helen! 

All the air with laughter shook 

That summery weather; 
None did see the way you took, 

Alone, with no other; 
Stealing swift as limpid brook 
Between banks of heather, 
Helen! Helen! 
42 



By the lake a hat and coat — 

The sky was so blue — 
Further on a drifting boat 

Without any crew, 
Oars and something white afloat, 

That proved to be you, 
Helen! Helen! 

White and still your placid face 

Upturned to the dew; 
Coils of hair, swept out of place, 

Your calm eyes shone through. 
Dumb with death's majestic grace, 

Is it well with you? 

Helen! Helen! 



43 




The Parting of the Ways. 

THE sweetness that lies in your beau- 
tiful eyes, 

Nanette! 



They're as blue as the blue of the sum- 
mer skies, 
And with always a hint of a June sun-rise, 

Nanette! 



O the glory you wear in your red-gold hair, 

Nanette! 
Just a shimmer of gloss — just a golden glare, 
With glintings of flame through it here and 

there. 

Nanette! 

44 



O the bloom of the south's on your red- 
curved mouth, 

Nanette! 
Such abandon of color the north disalloweth, 
As the pomegranate, sliced through the mid- 
dle, avoweth, 

Nanette! 

O the ache in my heart since our ways must 
part, 

Nanette! 
It is better perhaps for us both. But the 

smart 
That is mine, is too deep for the tears to start, 

Nanette! 



45 



■ IMIUMBIIIIHB IIH II IIIHIMIIIH 



How It Happened. 




HE was a dainty creature 

As ever you did see, 
Her cheeks were like the peach- 
blow, 
Eyes blue as blue could be; 
Her hair like rippling sunshine 
Fell almost to her knee. 



I have not done her justice, 
No artist could do that; 

Depict the sweet, shy coyness 
Beneath the rakish hat — 

The tantalizing dimples 
He never could get at. 
46 



They played in wild abandon, 
They nestled in the chin, 

And in among the peach-blow 
A-creeping out and in, 

Till all my heart was aching 
To kiss where they had been. 

We sat upon the door-step, 
The moon was hanging low, 

The stars were leaning toward us. 
And all the world below 

Was still as parting lovers — 
Seemed in a fervid glow. 

Now what transpired, I'm certain 
I never could make clear, 

But this — I felt a stinging 
Sharp blow upon my ear — 

She left me on the door-step 
With thoughts you shall not hear. 
47 



But that is how it happened— 
[And you will all agree — ] 

That cruising after dimples 
I said was not for me, 

And so I took to Blackstone, 
And let the maidens be. 



48 



The Secret. 




LINNET, linnet ! Stop singing a minute; 

You heard what my true love said. 
Now tell me true for the love of you, 

Will he love me when I'm dead? 



O linnet, linnet! 'Sh! Softly begin it. 

The secret is yours and mine; 
You know it's the way, forever and a day. 

The true-lover's knot is the sign. 

O linnet, parbleu! I'm ashamed of you. 

Go back and hide your head! 
My lover'U be true in spite of you — 

He'll not love another instead. 



49 




Grant. 

ORD was flashed across the sea, 

"Hasten! 
For one you love most tenderly 
Is languishing your face to see." 
The nation's hero was dying. 

Word was messaged back again, 

"Coming! 
Your Nellie rides the heaving main." 
The sick man rallied once again, 

And the days — the days were flying. 

Nellie's step was on the stair. 

Shaking, 
He started from his lounging chair, 
And then — a flash of bonny hair — 
"My little ewe-lamb!" he cried. 

50 



Dead the nation's hero is. 

Silence ! — 
Nor falling tear, nor loving kiss, 
Nor world-wide praises such as his, 
Can reach the other side. 



51 




Our Mother. 

SAY it softly as I weep, 

And kiss the cold, hard stone; 
She lies here but a fathom deep, 
And I sit here alone. 
She had not lost her girlish grace, 

Yet wore the woman's crown. 
And now the long grass marks the place 
Of her they've coffined down. 

I press my cheek down close to where 

White daisy-cups are seen. 
And wish a bed some cubits square, 

With coverlet of green ; 
A spacious bed, grass-roofed o'erhead, 

And wide enough for two, 
Where she and I, though we are dead. 
May love the long years through. 
52 



I reach out pleading hands, and fold 

My arms about the stone; 
I'd rather be here still and cold — 

The way's so dark and lone. 
I call her, but she does not hear. 

Nor speak a word, I ween; 
I shudder with a sudden fear — 

The grave-dark lies between. 

My heart will sob aloud and moan 

From out its darkening shiver; 
My life has caught the minor tone, 

And moans on like a river 
That seeks in vain the far-off sea. 

I gather up my woe 
And totter homeward o'er the lea, 

That smiles in bloom below. 



53 




Fast Asleep. 

AXEN eyelids, folded down, 
Fringed with lashes golden-brown. 

^ Both the hands in careless grace 
Flung above the dreamfull face. 

Hair of gloss, a-flecked across, 
Like the checkered threads of moss 

Blown upon by Western seas — 
Tumbled downward to the knees. 

From the eyelids folded down, 
Fringed with lashes golden-brown, 

Dewy lusters spilling over 
Like the rain on honey clover. 

What has happened now, I wonder. 
So to shake her dreams with thunder? 
54 



In the red lips' curves, half-hidden, 
Lurks a sob like guest unbidden. 

And a shadow, faint and dim 
As a cloudlet's outer rim, 

Drops from some place far or near 
On the sleeper lying here; 

Leaps and laps the face across 
Like the lights on trailing moss. 

See! the sleeper, feeling these. 
Rolls like boat on rocking seas — 

Rolls and moans as if in pain, 
With a dash of summer rain. 

Little sleeper! folded warm 

From the sight and touch of harm. 

What has happened now, I wonder, 
So to shake your dreams with thunder? 
55 




De Profundis. 

E wade knee-deep in mire and dirt; 
We stand as dwarfs amid the light, 
When to the mountain's dizzy height 
Our souls should leap with feet alert. 

Through sweat and blood we reach the stairs 
That lead to God, whose flaming bars . 
Mark out a road of golden stars 

'Neath bluer skies, through purer airs. 

From lowest depths of earthly woe, 
We grow from men to gods instead; 
We breathe new life who once were dead. 

We soar above the herd below. 

From out the soul of darkest night 
The fairest morning creeps full-blown; 
As Pallas sprang full-armed, full-grown. 

From head of Jove with torch of light. 

56 



I hold this truth through all of life, 
To be a cure for human sorrow; 
That each to-day forbodes a morrow, 

That peace is ever born of strife; 

That deepest grief brings surest calm, 
And saddest hearts a healthy bloom 
Of rarer fruit from out the tomb ; 

For every wound God gives a balm. 

The crowns we wear are won by toil ; 
The purest lives grow white and still 
Through goad, despair, and sternest ill, 

Since man's first curse to till the soil. 

God holds the two extremes of time : 
With His own hand He marks the way 
Our feet shall tread from day to day, 

From dearth and death to purer clime. 



57 




Pearl. 

(Aged Eighteen Months) 

UT one silken, golden tress 
From the curl-tossed head, Annesse- 
Lock it up with mute caress 



From my sight. I can not bear 
Yet to touch those threads of hair, 
Fine as silk and amber-fair. 

Put the broidered robe aside; 
Nevermore with boastful pride 
I shall let the needles glide ;— 

Nevermore across the floor, 
At the swinging, open door, 
I shall see her as of yore. 
58 



Put the little shoes away, 
And the toys she used in play, 
Ah, sweet Christ! but yesterday — 

Stop a moment ! As they said, 
Do you think her truly dead, 
Only two hours ill in bed? — 

Icy-cold you say she is? — 
She was never used to this — 
Nothing colder than a kiss. 

Fold the dimpled hands. This way 
She was wont to kneel and pray 
"Now I lay me" every day. 

In her crib you say she's lain ? 
Ah, within this clutching pain! 
And without the sobbing rain ! 

59 



Wrap her warm, and Annesse, stay! 
She must not be lain away 
Till a brighter, fairer day. 

Could I sleep of nights and know 
That the rain and drifting snow 
Beat about her cradle so? 

God! The house! How still it is! 
The worst Babel would be bliss 
To a stillness such as this. 



60 



If I Had Known. 




F I had known the way would be so clear 

Unto my feet, 
I had not kept in bjrways bleak and drear, 

With thorns replete. 



If I had known His mansion was so fair 

And full of joy, 
I had not staid where Satan set his snare, 

In sin*s employ. 

If I had known His table would be spread 

For even me^ 
That, freed of sin, all would be housed and fed 

In like degree — 
6i 



I had not waited all these years to cry, 
My Saviour sweet: 

I had been glad to only prostrate lie 
And kiss His feet, 

Content that He should give to such as / 
Such bliss complete. 



62 



ut<-<ii«ja » ..u u»ij.ji. i M 



Kate's Slipper. 




r has stood upon my dressing-case 

A score of years and more, 
Yet is as dainty on Its face 
As when she^ with a nameless grace, 
Tripped o'er the polished floor. 

I lift it up as one who hears 

A voice that stabs him through; 
I dust it softly through my tears, 
And pray the grief-dust from those years 
Might drop as quickly, too. 

And sudden all the deadened air 
Is strangely stirred around me, 
A rustle on the empty stair — 
A foot-fall close beside my chair, 
Bewilder and astound me. 
63 



Then cool through all the fever pain 

I feel upon my brow 
Her kisses fall like Autumn rain, 
And her soft cheek to mine is lain — 

No softer then than now. 

Of old I reached out passionate, 

The vision was so like her, 
And groped, and cursed irrationate, 
God's hand whose skill could fashion it- 

The arrow that should strike her. 

But now I've grown so used, I'm still, 

Though like as life it seems; 
I know, as oft before, it will 
But leave me yet in deeper chill, 
Since only made of dreams. . . . 



64 



"Not Now, But Afterward." 




OD knows the paths that you must tread ; 

The sunlit way with scent of rose, 
Of eglantine and rosemary, too. 
When life is sweet with honey-dew, 
The sky so blue — so blue o'erhead. 

You wade through fields of yellow-aster, 
And sing as blithe as woodland bird; 
You crush the cowslips over and over 
To reach some phantom four-leaf clover, 

That lures you onward faster — faster. 

Alack! What's this? The rose is dead. 
The eglantine a scentless thing; 
And where's the sky so blue — so blue? 
A gray, cold mist, that chills you through, 
Shuts out the sky — hangs overhead. 
5 65 



Your moan slips shuddering through your 
mouth, 
Your tears are frozen ere they fall; 
You grope and clutch the empty air; 
You seem so old you know not where 
You parted company with your youth. 

You totter panting, sorrow-eyed, 

Along the crocus-bordered road, 

With yew and cypress overhung. 

"Alack!" you moan, "My songs are sung. 
And life is lived, since love has died." 

Above your cry His voice is heard. 
You hear it not, you only know 
Your skies to-day are cold and gray 
That were so blue but yesterday — 
"Not now, my child! but afterward. 

66 



If roads are rough, and skies are blurred, 
But trust my love that knoweth best; 
If skies are gray that once were blue, 
The gray, my child I is best for you. 

Not now, you'll know, but afterward." 



67 



M»]»ill..«,UllUJl 




Margaret. 

ARGARET! Margaret! You are 
fair, you are proud, 
You have queenly ways and a queenly 
tread ; 
You are singled out in any crowd 

By the stately poise of your golden head. 

Margaret! Margaret! You are false as youVe 
fair; 

You are white as the snow and far more cold ; 
And the amber lights of your lustrous hair 

Are banded away in a heavy fold. 

Margaret! Margaret! You were late at the ball 
In a satin dress of the finest woof; 

And the richest lace was over it all — 
I craved a word, but you kept aloof. 

68 



Margaret I Margaret! And there blazed in 
the lights, 

A fiery gleam on your snowy hand, 
Like clusters of stars on summer nights — 

The ring I gave was a plain, gold band. 

Margaret! Margaret! In that golden summer 
We played at hearts, and the days were aflame, 

And our speech died out in a blissful murmur 
As we drew on near to the end of the game. 

Margaret! Margaret! And I held you so fast, 
As I kissed your lips in a passionate swoon. 

That heart beat to heart in a rapture, at last, 
And the stars heard our troth-vows under 
the moon. 

Margaret! Margaret! You are cruel as death, 

And the haughty gleam of your violet eyes 

Is fatal as steel when it cleaves the breath 

Of a man in the fight till he dies. 

69 



Margaret I Margaret I The sea-gull is crying, 
And the sun of the South Sea's pale in the 
west; 

And troops of ominous birds are flying 
About the ship on the ocean's breast. 

Margaret! Margaret! The daylight is dying 
From out of the sky and off from the sea, 

And the low south winds are sighing — sighing, 
And I am roaming an exile for thee. 



70 




The Weaver. 

OLD the hands — her work is done. 
Busy hands they were and skilled ; 
Throwing shuttle as they willed — 
Weaving what they erst had spun. 



Now the distaff's tune is sung ; 

Reel and loom are quiet too; 

Where the shuttle swiftly flew, 
Now a long, black thread is swung. 

Did I say her work was done? 

Nay, not so. 'Tis only dropped . 

Where the shuttle slowed and stopped, 
Her new work will have begun. 
71 



Death has given larger room 
For expansion. In the skies, 
Folded yet in sweet surprise, 

She is sitting at her loom. 

And the distaff's tune is rung, 
And the shuttle swiftly flies. 
Weaving fabrics for the skies. 

While hosannas sweet are sung. 



72 



Three Steps in Life, 




HE roses climb the garden-wall, 
They scent the summer air ; 
The blue sky leans down over all — 
Birds sing without a care; 
The flowers reach up toward the sun, 
And brighten till the day is done. 
O life! thou art so fair. 

The shadows lengthen down the walk, 

And down my life as well; 
I hear but sorrow's moaning talk — 

She loves her grief to tell 
I scarce do know — I scarce do know 
If skies are blue or flowers grow. 

Or birds pipe in the dell. 
73 



The black night droppeth — hangeth low; 

But through the rifts I see 
The stars, like beacon fires, to glow 

And flash their lights to me. 
I know — I know full well some day 
The black, dread night will roll away — 

The dawning I shall see. 



74 




The Visitors. 

NGELS three now walk with me, 
One on either side; 
One, Lenore, she goes before — 
She — the last that died. 



Folded wings no shadow flings, 

Grieving all is done ; 
While we walk and sweetly talk, 

Lo! the sun is gone. 

Shimmering gown and shining crown! 

I am not afraid; 
Holding hands, days fleeting sands 

Are run out and paid. 
75 



Dipping wings a shadow flings— 

Falleth on the heart ; 
Each to each do eager reach — 

Gaze and sway apart. 

While we gaze, I, in amaze, 

Caught up in the sky- 
Angels three that walk with me, 

Left alone am I, 



76 




In the Streets. 

WISH I were dead! 

The winds o'er my head] 
Are shrieking so madly, 
Are laughing so gladly, 
It may be they'd sadly 
Moan over me dead. 

With bare feet and head 
I wander the streets. 
Shut out from life's sweets, 
Drenched through with its sleets- 
No home and no bed. 

I'm dazed in my head, 

I think, with this heat, 

In swift, measured beat. 

Like treading of feet 
On floors made of lead. 
77 



IHHMMIII IWIllllllll III mil 



I wish I were dead ! 

With space for a bed, 
If space there is any 
For me, and the many- 
Like me, for a penny 

Now starving for bread. 

What was it I said, 
Just there by the shop, 
That made the man stop, 
And caused him to drop 

His hand on my head? 

The words that he said 
Are burned in my brain. 
With clutches of pain. 
That bind Hke a chain 

The thoughts in my head. 



78 



His lips held the name 
Of Christ without shame; 
Yet dropped only words 
That stabbed deep as swords, 
While ever the Lord's 
Reprieve us of blame. 

If he had but said: 
"Poor thing, so bereft 
Of joy I" I had slept 
To-night and not wept 

The hours out instead. 

O, God! to be dead! 
Am I, as he said, 

A Magdalen cursed, 

Of honor disbursed, 

By misery nursed — 
Too vile to be fed? 
79 



Am I, as he said, 

More dead than the dead, 
Where chin-cloths are pinned 
Round checks that are thinned, 
Tucked warm from the wind 

In odorous bed? 

God! God of the dead! 
Vm not as he said. 

I look to Thy sky 

With worshipful eye, 

And thus face the lie 
His base lips have said. 

Keep, city, your bread, 

Your fire and your hearth! 
To-night the new birth 
Shall lift me from earth, 

Safe, safe with the dead. 
80 



Private Finlay of Company C. 




OU may sing of your heroes to East and 

to West, 
Of Dewey and Sampson and Schley and 
the rest; 
But the hero of heroes you'll surely agree, 
Is plain private Finlay of Company C. 

You ma.y Hobsonize duty — give each man his due. 
Brave Hobson! I'd ne'er take a laurel from 

you. 
But duty sublime as e'er plucked from the sea 
Scored plain private Finlay of Company C. 

Around him were dropping a hail-storm of shell, 
And the air was ablaze with the demons of hell, 
But he never flinched for a moment, not he, 
This volunteer private of Company C, 
6 8i 



With his horse and his driver both of them 

dead, 
He harnessed himself to the cart instead; 
"This yer stufF must get to the boys," said he, 
Our volunteer private of Company C. 

And across the open with swinging tread, 
He dragged ten cart-loads of shell, 'tis said, 
To the boys that were fighting at Malate, 
This plain private Finlay of Company C. 

You know all the rest. How he turned the 

tide, 
Of a wavering victory to our side; 
As gallant a deed as e'er plucked from the sea, 
Scored plain private Finlay of Company C. 

Then back o'er the open's shell-swept plain, 

With the guns a-thundering at him again — 

*'I must save these yer wounded boys," said he, 

This volunteer private of Company C, 

82 



I kmuiii iiiiii iij iiiji ijLiu.mi 



He stooped and picked up two comrades in 

pain, 
And turned his cart to an ambulance-train. 
By the side of our Hobson, who damned up 

the sea, 
Put plain private Finlay of Company C. 



83 



f k >nwgi«iT -^J»i»|iJnimj.. ' .»jj 



The White-Robed of the Lord. 




LEEDING brows wear richer beauty 
I Than the scarless ever show; 
^ Human souls grown aged in duty 
Stand as white as driven snow. 

Tortured lives gain full completeness 
From the clinching of the screws; 

At the last a rarer sweetness 
Will atone the rack's abuse. 

Human hearts grow over-tender 
In the wine-press' awful gloom; 

Catch a more than angel-splendor 
That shall light them through the tomb. 

84 



Lips, that curse, drop Into praying 
With the nail-wounds and the gall! 

Eyes roll Christward, no words saying, 
With the vise-clutch on the ball. 

Heads that whiten, truth upholding, 
Souls that brave the fire and sword; 

Lives that show the furnace-molding. 
Are the white-robed of the Lord. 



85 




A Life for a Life. 

CHILD I I cannot look at you, 
For tears that drop like morning, dew, 
And wet your curls. 



So like you are the coffined dead 
From arching foot to bonny head, 
If you but come too suddenly 
Within the room, I cannot see, 
So blind I grow, and stabbing pain 
Like a sharp dagger tears again 
My heart. You cannot yet divine 
What loss is yours — what woe is mine. 
Some trick of voice, or dainty grace 
Of tawny hair and oval face ; 
Some trick of manner, soft and shy 
Of arching brow, of grave sweet eye, 
Each day unfurls. 

O, child of her I loved and lost I 
Bequeathed to me at such a cost 
Of mortal pain. 
86 



I read the wonder in your eyes; 
I see the look of pained surprise, 
That, like a shadow, comes and goes; 
And know you cannot guess the throes 
I feel, or that I scarce can bear 
Your footstep on the sounding stair; 
Or that I shudder when you press 
Your lips to mine in soft caress. 
And when your hair, a tawny flame 
Of splendor, coils, insent to blame. 
About my knees, I gasp for breath — 
I reel like one astruck with death 
Into the air. I cannot pray. 
But stretch my pleading hands away 
Toward God. And know in His own time 
To life's sad croon and faulty rhyme, 
I shall grow strong to even bear 
Her child to occupy her chair 
Her child to take the cherished place 
Within my heart, of her dead face, 
And smile again. 



^7 




Undaunted. 

OU think to stifle the song in my throat? 

I sing for the joy of singing; 
As easy to fetter the lark's clear note, 
That sets the heavens a-ringing. 



You think to shut the .laugh in my mouth 

In orthodoxist fashion ? 
I laugh for joy of a happy youth, 

Undaunted, full of passion. 

As easy to bridle the babbling brook, 
That cuts the meadow yonder; 

Or follow the trail the lightning took 
With deafening sense of thunder. 

88 



m laugh and sing the louder — clearer — 
The darker the face of the sky; 

The blacker the night the sweeter — dearer- 
The sun that rides on high. 

ril laugh and sing my best — my best, 
And strive with true endeavor; 

For that is the way life's keenest zest 
Goes on and on forever. 



89 



BBBBBQCSXt 




The Old Year. 

BELLS, chime low your rhythmic tune, 
Ring sweet and low, as bells of June 
Toll masses for a waning moon! 



O, wailing winds, sob low — sob low 
Across the shining fields of snow! 
Ah, God! the night is full of woe! 

Shoot, stars, your silver lances, light 

Along the footsteps of the night! 

And, moon, grow dim — you're all too brightl 

O, dear old year! weVe loved you so — • 
We can not bear to have you go — 
Ring low, O, bells, ring low — ring low! 

And dear, dead year! we've loved you true; 

We'll love you still, e'en though the New 

Has come to charm our love from you. 

90 



We'd love you still though ages dead, 
We hold each hair of your gray head 
As dear as mothers hold, instead 

Of babes God took, a tress of gold, 
Or some chance toy — not grown so old. 
But causes anguish double-fold. 

O, sweet, lost year! We've loved you true, 
We'll love you still e'en though the New 
Has come to charm our love from you. 



9» 




The Scroll's Unfolding. 

N God's own time, In God's own way, 
The scroll will open life's brief day. 

We'll read and know, both I and you. 
That God was kinder than we knew. - 

If winds were rough and skies were gray, 
God knew 'twas best for us that way. 

If checkered woof was mine and, mayhap, 

yours. 
The need was ours, the scroll assures. 

If sorrow walked with me and joy with you, 
God had each soul's best good in view. 

If sorrow vigiled with us to the end, 
She proved the truest, sweetest friend. 

92 



In God's own time, in God's own way, 
The scroll will open life's brief day. 

We'll read and know, both I and you. 
That God was kinder than we knew. 



93 




Mount Hood. 

E lift up our faces in worshipful won- 
der, 
We stretch out our hands to you, 
meekly and humbly, 
In a rapturous silence, helplessly broken 
Into fragments of words that never are 
spoken — 
That drop as the snowflakes, lowly and dumbly. 
O, King of Cascade, in your white robes of 
ermine ! 
Can we speak with our ears a-tingling with 
thunder? 
You are old — you are wise and you shall de- 
termine. 

94 



If, haply, we did, what good would it do us. 
With all sense stricken out from the empty 
words 
By the cannon of heaven a-rumbling through us? 
The earth and the heavens alike are the 
Lord's, 
And both are alive with a sense of His pres- 
ence. 
Albeit we never can look at His face. 
If, certes, we draw too near to His essence, 
We straight are abashed and struck dumb 
in our place. 

You are old — you are old — and we wonder 
truly. 
Could you number the years that have piled 
their snows 
To a stately, white pyramid, adding duly 
The terrestrial storms and inward throes 

95 



That have beaten such scars in your kingly 

face, 

Like a veteran warrior's, rugged and brown? 

O, King of Cascade! from the height of your 

place, 

Overtopping the forests and looking a-down 

The valley to seaward, and reaching your 
hands 
In silent benicite over the town, 
A-bloom like a garden of Orient lands — 
We but lift up our eyes to your ermined 
gown, 
We stretch out our hands to you meekly and 
humbly, 
In a rapturous silence, helplessly broken 
Into fragments of words that never are 
spoken — 
That drop as the snowflakes, lowly and dumbly. 

96 



lln;»jaiJ.MJMmiMi»ly«J««»M— » n»tj-uu— m 




ourprises. 

HERE'LL be some big surprises 

When the race of life is up ; 
For God will sift disguises 
When He bestows the cup. 

Some Magdalen accursed, 

But sorry for her sin, 
With hungry eyes, that durst 

Not ask to let her in; 

Whom you pass by, alas! 

With scorn so deep and still — 
May own the biggest palace 

On Heaven's Noh hill. 

There'll be some big surprises 
When the race of life is up; 
For God will sift disguises 

When he bestows the cup. 

7 97 




Under the Ban. 

"Alas! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity. " 

HAT matter the brown eyes are lifted 
In a passion of woe to your face,' 
And the sweet lips are wrenched of 
their grace, 
While the heavy brown curls are sifted 
With blood in the struggle for life? 

With seventeen summers of bloom, 
This girl with no right of a wife, 

Is best with her shame in the tomb. 
What matter the fall of her gown 

Was chaste as yours is, and her name. 
Unawares, was robbed of its crown? 
What matter? The curse is the same. 

98 



She caught at the sin as is seen, 

And sin is no more than the will is; 

She chose between roses and lilies, 
And strayed in a path over-green. 
She plucked at a rose and it pricked 
her; 

"All roses," she said, "do not wound," 
And tied up the rest, that she picked her, 

In posies she threw on the ground. 
Then back to the place where the lilies 

Stood solemn and fair in the sun. 
She walked, and twined of the lilies 

A wreath that she, laughing, put on. 



But the breath of the roses came faintly: 
"O, the roses smell sweeter," she said, 
And turned in the rose-path instead. 
While the lilies, solemn and saintly, 
LOFC. 99 



Were pallid with wonder and pain. 

She threw to the roses a kiss, 
Which the roses flung back to her twain, 

And, sudden, slipped down the abyss 
Of passion that girted her in. 

The lilies crept off from her head. 

Away from the touch of her sin; 

And now she is lying here dead. 



TOO 




My Tramp. 

S I sit a-rocking 

On the oaken floor, 
Hist ! I hear a knocking 
At the lattice-door — 
Wide I swing the door. 

When a little urchin, 
Quaint as quaint can be. 

Whom I scarce can urge in — 
Scarce as high's my knee. 
On the steps I see, 

Looking out demurely 

From sombrero brim, 
And in boots, that surely 

Ne'er were made for him — 

Just a baby's whim. 

lOI 



Yellow hair a-tangle 
Round a dirty face; 

Collar, too, a-wrangle, 
Not a thing in place 
But the roguish face. 



I, a frown assuming, 
Turn me half aside; 

"Sure, there is no room in 
Here for tramps to hide- 

They outdoors abide." 



Hangs the pretty head, 
Mouth a-quiver, too; 

Blue eyes full of dread. 
Dripping briny dew — 
Takes a step or two. 

102 



Up the yellow head, 

Eyes catch hope in this; 

" Fse your little Fred — 
Don't you know I is?" 
Answer I with kiss. 



103 




Claire. 

IJLAIRE, with the rarest of faces — 
Dimpling in shadow and sheen 
Set in a tangle of graces 

A Titian might envy, I ween. 

Claire, with the brownest of lashes. 
Curling o'er brownest of eyes, 

Lighted with lambent flashes — 
Sweet with the shyest surprise. 

Claire, that on shadowy eves, 
Broidered the slippers I wear; 

Twining the buds and the leaves 
Together with lovingest care. 
104 



Claire, that with daintest skill, 
Hung on a stem like a thread, 

Roses and blue-bells that still 
Bloom on a velvety bed, — 

Loving remembrance as this 
Thus to remember is meet; 

Stoop, dear, and take you a kiss, 
Thus I am thanking you, sweet. 



105 




Like to Thee. 

IKE to Thee, O, my Father! 

I would be. 
Thou^ not I, I would rather 
Choose for me. 



Thou^ not I, knowest better 
Which is best; 

Whether goad or silken fetter- 
Toil or rest. 

Thou hast walked all the road 

I must go I 
Borne the ignominious load — 

Cross of woe. 
io6 



Thou wilt lead through the dark 

Valley's bed- 
Safely anchor each frail bark 

Of Thy dead. 

Run my life in any mold 

Thou seest fit; 
Let Thy love so manifold 

Fashion it. 

Like to Thee, O, my Father ! 

I would be. 
Thou^ not I, I would rather 

Choose for me. 



107 




The Empty Nest. 

LINNET built in a cedar-tree 
Her nest so snug and tight; 
She lined it soft with the thistle's down, 
And fastened the twigs so trim and brown ; 
Though sound of hammer was never heard — 
Naught but the twitter of busy bird — 
A master builder was she — was she, 
No careless, luckless wight. 

A linnet sat on a cedar limb 

And trilled her joyous lay ; 

A lullaby-song, for you must know — 

[The cricket paused in the grass below. 

And the spider stopped his spinning-wheel 

To hear the linnet's musical reel — ] 

A tiny birdlet, neat and trim, 

Broke shell at break of day. 

io8 



egtSBBSBRSBI 



A stillness fell on the cedar-tree, 

A silence like to death; 
We climbed to the nest and then looked in, 
But the thistle's down was worn and thin; 
A piece of shell and a birdlet's wing 
Were all we saw in the empty thing. 
*"Tis ever so in life, you'll see," 

Cried summer's panting breath. 

We build our nests in the tree of life — 

The cedar of life. Ah, me! 

We build them strong and we build them wide, 

We sing with the best in our boastful pride; 

For the nests are filled, as seemeth best. 

With little heads and we feel so blest. 

Then some fly East and some fly West, 

And some (Ah, God ! and is that, too, best 

With nothing left but an empty nest?) 

Soar skyward past the rim of life, 

And now are safe with Thee. 

109 



^^■"~— «™— » 



« Tf »» 



u: 




F one of God's sweet angels came to-night 

And called my name, 
Could I refuse to follow? Would the 
sight, 

As I pass by, 
Of my young child, who, when the morning 

broke. 

With wants the same. 
Would call his mother, sobbing as he spoke 
With fretful cry — 

Ah! would it make me falter, knowing this. 

And turn aside 
Beside his crib to snatch a farewell kiss? 

Or would I be 
So dazed with that angelic vision sweet 

I could but glide 

Straight on and on with ever hastening feet, 

Intent to see 
no 



And meet my Lord, forgetting time and sense 

As near I drew? 
And if from that far height of recompense 

I should look down 
Upon the clay, that once had borne my name 

And features, too, 
Now truly deaf henceforth to praise or blame — 

And see the town 



A-flocking to the ghastly, whitish room 

To gape and note 
If mid the snowy mass a crocus bloom 

Had been sent in; 
Could I restrain the shudder I should feel — 

The sob in throat — 
Were I alive? And if slow steps should steal- 

The face grown thin 



III 



And set with grief — across the silent room, 

Throw back the pall 
With smothered groan, and lift from out the 
gloom, 

That deeper grew, 
Our sweet young child to see his mother's face, 

Then cover all 
And stride with sobs from out the gruesome 
place, 

What would I do? 



112 



mmaawj a jiieuiuiMLi^imidm 



Baby Edna. 



DIMPLED atom of grace, 

With brown hair shading to gold; 
The far-away look on the face 
That earth-angels wear, I am told- 
And never the azure skies 
Could match the blue of her eyes. 




Hardly a year from the sky. 

We could count the months on our hands; 
But the angels missed her on high — ■ 

The angel messenger-bands; 
And one stole in unaware- — 
"Where's Edna?" we cried in despair. 

8 113 



I like to look upward and think 
That I have one angel there; 

She is drawing me up by a link 
Of her pretty, pale-brown hair. 

And always aloft in the skies 

I am seeing the blue of her eyes. 



114 



The Harbor Lights.* 




HREE crimson bars 

Twixt banks of lurid gray; 
A blood-red disk, 

That stooped and sailed away. 
Above there hung 

An outstretched raven's wing — 
At morn a lark 

Had pierced the blue to sing. 

An old tar gravely shook his head, 

" Davy Jones'U show his teeth," he said. 

Out in the offing the billows are rolling, 
Black is the sky that hangs overhead; 

Black are the waves whose monotonous tolling 
Rings out a dirge for the coffinless dead. 

*Read at the Semi-Centennial Anniversary of the found- 
ing of Monnett Hall, Ohio Wesleyan University, Delaware, 
O., June, 1903. 



"Hark, ye men!" the harbor-master cries, 

"Triton is blowing his twisted horn: 
Saw ye his heralds ablaze in the skies? 

Many a crew will ne'er see the morn. 

Davy's locker's full o' gruesome sights. 

Swing to their places the harbor lights. 



Out in the offing a good ship is riding 

Thunderous swells that leap toward the sky; 
Landward the breakers are rushing, colliding — 

Fierce-winged steeds with white manes a-fly. 
"Steady, my Hearties!" the captain is saying, 

"Never a ship was stauncher or truer. 
¥7hat does it matter the sea-hounds are baying. 

Freed from the leash and bent to undo her? 
God holds the reins o-f the wildest of nights. 
See! over there are the harbor lights," 



ii6 



Out in the offing of life's heaving sea, 

Tossed is my bark and her sails rent in twain; 

But my Captain — my Captain is saying to me, 
"Lol I am with you," again and again. 

Unafraid I keep whispering the words o'er 
and o'er. 

For my Captain, he knows every foot of 
the sea; 
And soon he will bring me all safe to the 
shore — 
The opalline shore of eternity; 
Where scintiilant as stars on frosty nights. 
Gleam heavenly bright the harbor lights. 



117 




One Little Maid. 

OFT hair, ^ntly spun 

And yellow as gold; 
Like tendrils in the sun 
Each shimmering fold 
Clings fast to your hold. 

Eyes — presto! One day 
An angel swept by, 

Like a meteor's ray 
Slipped out of the sky, 
And dropped from on high 

Two sapphires so rare 
Their cost is unknown; 

Their worth, / declare, 
Outvalues a throne- 
Victoria's own. 
ii8 



This dear, little sprite 
Of sunshine and dew, 

In size just a mite — 
In years but a few, 
Can tyrannize, too. 

**Fair Lillian" we call her. 
God keep her we pray. 

Till, older and taller, 

Tired out with life's play. 
She's had her sweet day. 



119 




Barbara's Trust. 

HE'S an heiress, so they say. 
I, a factory girl, each day 
Earning bread the self-same way. 



She wears silks and laces fine. 
Cheaper prints and wools are mine — 
Twixt us sharp is drawn the line. 

She is fair as lilies be. 

I, a nut-brown maid — ah, mei 

Very different are we. 

Yet he loves me far the best; 
That I long ago had guessed 
Ere his lips and mine had pressed. 

But she lures him with her gold — 
With her hair of tawny mold, 
And her eyes — a siren bold. 
1 20 



I would be ashamed to look 
At myself in meadow-brook, 
If I flung him, pride forsook, 

Such a bold coquettish stare 
As she gave him, standing there 
With the sunlight on her hair. 

When I met them in the town, 
He with smile and she with frown. 
Straight my eyelids fluttered down. 

For I read a language sweet 
In his eyes — a love complete. 
She could tramp me 'neath her feet. 

But I care not for her gold. 
Nor her laces, rare and old. 
Nor her beauty, fair and cold. 

For he loves me far the best. 
That I know. As for the rest 
He will stand the crucial test. 

121 



To Nell. 




UT in the world somewhere 
There is a place for you; 
Laurel, the gods held, to be 
Worn, must be worthily won, 
Wait for your splendor of hair. 
Kissed into flame by the sun- 
Breaking in waves like the sea. 

Then to yourself be true, 
Nell, with the flame-flecked hair! 

There is a place for you 
Out in the world somewhere. 



122 




A Mother's Answer. 

OU ask strange questions, dear, to-day — 

Why do the babies die? 
God wants them, child, some wise men 
say. 
To catch the tears of pilgrims gray; 
To hold the golden vials filled 
With prayers of saints, whose blood was 

spilled 
By wicked men on earth — to swing 
The golden censers — chant and sing 
Before His throne on high. 

And yet methinks, O daughter mine! 

A sweeter task is theirs; 
Some mothers, wrapped in ermine fine, 
Are only drawn by such a line — 

123 



A tiny coil of amber thread, 
Spun off a darling baby's head — 
To climb the golden stairs. 

Me thinks the mother heart would break 

Did it not feel it so; 
They come to us asleep — awake, 
Their baby hands in ours we take ; 
They come to us on shining wings — 
We feel their breath — they whisper things 

That only mothers know. 

Do babies grow in heaven ? O, Sue ! 

They surely never will. 
Would Robbie be the same to you 
Grown tall and big and whiskered, too? 
So short and narrow was his bed — 
A tea-cup held his tiny head — 

He's just wee Robbie still. 

124 



Do babies grow in heaven? O, child I 

I can not think they will. 
The mother heart be reconciled 
To take, though heaven itself beguiled, 
For her babe's life of but a span, 
The full-grown stature of a man? 
Our babies, grown so wondrous wise, 
Taught in the schools of Paradise, 
Will be our babies still. 



125 




Beware to Part. 



E meet and part and ever dream 
That we shall meet the same; 

We meet again and each will seem 
Another, save in name. 



The face and form and very smile 

May greet you as of old; 
Yet underneath their lurks the while, 

A thing of phantom mould. 

The eyes meet yours with laughing light, 
Yet down their depths of blue, 

You trace the phantom's deadly blight, 
But think your own are true. 
126 



The lips may speak with olden spell, 

But ah! an undertone 

Creeps up to tell the tale as well 
In theirs, as in your own. 

You lie along the summer grass, 
And blame the sweet-faced moon; 

You call her but a fickle lass 
To change and change so soon. 

You think the sky is not so blue. 
The flowers are in a swoon; 

That friends are all alike untrue, 
And birds sing out of tune. 

Thus inner grief works outer wrongs. 
Which are of your own making; 

Which you hold up as poet's songs 
To ease your full heart's aching. 

127 



O, loving hearts! love on — love on! 

Walk hand in hand together, 
In meadows burnished with the sun, 

Through storm and rainy weather. 

Beware to part if once you've met! 

Say not "we'll meet again"; 
Again may come and yet — and yet — 

Your meeting will be vain. 



128 



If It's Done With a Thought of Him, 




F ever Jesus has need of me, 

Somewhere in the fields of sin, 
I'll go where the darkest places be, 
And let the sunshine in; 
I'll be content with the lowliest place 

To earth's remotest rim: 
I know I'll see His smiling face. 
If it's done with a thought of Him. 

I may not be called to some great thing, 

That would blazon my name on high, 
But only to mend a broken wing. 

Till ready again to fly; 
Or only to give the cooling drink, 

Or sight, when eyes are dim; 
It doesn't matter at all, I think. 

If it's done with a thought of Him. 
9 129 



ril fill each day with the little things, 

As the pressing moments fly; 
The tendril, which to the great oak clings, 

Grows strong as it climbs on high. 
I'll trust my Lord, though I can not see. 

Nor e'er let my faith grow dim ; 
He'll smile — and that's enough for me — 

If it's done with a thought of Him. 



130 




The Girl I Love. 

HERE'S a maiden that I know 

With a wild-rose sort of grace, 
And shy eyes, the sweetest though, 
Ever found in any face. 

And she flings her sweetness out 

Like wild-roses on the air; 
All unconscious of the rout 

She is making everywhere. 

For the bees, perforce, know best 
Where the sweetest flowers grow — 

Clover, rose and all the rest. 

Grow they high or grow they low. 

She is young and she is pure, 
And she knows not what to make 

Of the homage bold, demure. 
That is hers if she will take. 
131 



Ah! I wonder whom she'll choose 
From her lovers bold, demure! 

She can — she can but refuse — 
If I only felt quite sure 

That the sweet eyes told me truly 
When their glance fell under mine, 

And the maiden blush unruly — 

Jove! Ah! There's that Richard Stine 

With her now. Does he suppose 
For one instant she would choose — 

Yet her color comes and goes — 
God in Heaven! If I lose — 

• «••••• 

Sky and earth are full of cheer. 

Stoop, dear reader, of my lay! 
Let me whisper in your ear — 

We were married yesterday. 
132 



By-G 



ones. 




SIT within the shadow of old dreams; 
I hear the cadenced bells ring sweet 
and low 

From out the charmed isle of Long Ago, 
And soft they chime the minors as beseems. 

I see the dear old house with shelving eaves, 
The wide, low door and quaintly-outlined 

rooms; 
The orchard drifting clouds of sweet per- 
fumes. 
As Autumn drifts her tide of crimson leaves: 

The shady lane that wound up from the road 
Amid old oaks that stood a century old; 
The babbling brook that all its secrets told 

To fragrant meadows lying freshly mowed: 

133 



The tryst, where all the days we sported glad 
As any bird that cleaves the buoyant air; 
Before our hearts grew old o'ersoon with 
care, 

And ere life's lessons taught us to be sad. 

The patient face beside the nursery door, 
That held its calm above our childish touch; 
The mother-heart forbearing, loving much. 

The quiet step across the tufted floor — 

And then the kiss that made our dreams more 
sweet. 
The low " good-night, my darling," softly said 
As prayer above each little curl-toss'd head. 

That in our sleep fell soft as angels' feet. 

I weep within the shadow of old dreams: 
I hear the mournful bells toll sad and low 
From out the sorrow-laden Long Ago, 

And slovz they trail the minors as beseems. 

134 



Across the fields where daisies love to grow, 
She lies grave-locked beyond our sight and 

touch! 
Ah! mothers, loving wisely, love o'ermuch, 

And give us cause to sorrow for them so. 

She grew a part of every room and hall. 
And, going, left so wide a want behind 
That nothing fills. O! others may be kind. 

But she was kindest, truest of them all. 

The daisy-turf becomes our dearest care. 
For sake of her they've coffined fast be- 
neath; 
The head-stone wears this as a floral wreath, 

"Her life was saintly as the breath of prayer." 



135 




Sibyl. 

HERE'S sunshine in her burnished hair, 

And sunshine in her hazel eyes, 
That gleam and gleam unearthly fair — 
A far-off look so sweet, so wise. - 
She lisps in tones that thrill me through, 
"Oor Sibyl, mamma dear, 'uvs oo." 

I catch my breath with nameless fear, 

I cannot bear that look to see; 
A whirr of wings I seem to hear, 

And far-off footfalls come to me. 
"Sweet onel" I cry, "I can not bear 
That angel-look you often wear," 
The smiles and lisps — it thrills me through- — 
"Oor Sibyl, mamma dear, 'uvs oo." 

136 



child of sunshine, balm, and dew I 
Look earthward with your steadfast eyes; 

Life is so sweet while I have you — 

See not the angels in the skies. 
They'll beckon you away from me. 
And that — and that — it must not be! 

1 could not bear no more to hear 
Your piping voice, so sweet and clear, 
Ring out in tones that thrill me through ; 
**Oor Sibyl, mamma dear, 'uvs oo." 



137 




Hic Jacet. 

(In Memoriam. — L. L.) 

IC jacet. The sob is not hushed, 
The sod is but freshly up-turned; 
The latest-worn garments unbrushed- 
Her lesson of living is learned. 



Did footfalls come to her ear — 
A call that was clear as a bell, 

Which earth-senses could not hear?- 
Who is wise enough to tell? — 

A startled look, like a deer's 

When he finds himself entrapped- 

Then the wisdom of the seers 
The glazing eyes enwrapped. 
138 



And now life's lesson is learned. 

That smile that was left on her face, 
Bespeaks the peace she has earned — 

The rest in a larger place. 

Hie jacet. Sweet comrade and true! 

Sleep on where the violets grow; 
Our loss is but gain unto you, 

Tf^ho knoweth more than the angels know. 



139 



A Portrait. 




ER white, white shoulders, fine and 
smooth as silk, 
Up-rose from out a cloud of azure- 
gray, 
And round the slim column of her neck 
there lay 
Great ropes of pearls, the tint of uncreamed 

milk. 
Above, the stately head was goddess-poised. 
Piled high with copper-colored braids of 

hair. 
Lustrous as satin and exceeding fair. 
The luring witch'ry of her eyes was noised 
A-far and near — brown as coquilla-nuts 
And soft as velvet, under lids of snow 

140 



injjiu.»a«..ii»ijiij.ji i .-ii^ in i Fie W 



Whose curving sweep of amber lashes shuts 

In half their sweetness. Like a bended bow 

The sweet mouth curved in red lines fine and 

thin, 
And one deep dimple pricked the rounded 

chin. 



141 



iaura. 




RETTY eyes, 

Heaven's azure ; 
Sweetly wise 

In a measure. 

Forehead wide, 
Like a thinker's; 

(Pulls aside 
Drowsy winkers.) 

Flaxen hair 

Softly floating ; 
(During prayer 

Aptly quoting.) 

Little feet 

On the stairs, 
Making sweet. 

Unawares, 

142 



All the floor 

Where they tread ; 
(Purling o'er 

Pussy's head.) 

Marking books, 
Cross the pages 

With sly looks— 
(Two her age is,) 

Funny scratches 
On the margins ; 

Striking matches, 
Little bargains. 

Papa's "besson,'* 
Mamma's "buty;" 

Conning lesson 
As a duty. 
143 



All your fretting, 
Twisting over, 

Into petting 

What is of her,— 

All your scolding 
And a-betting, 

In her holding 
Is forgetting. — 

Archly all your 
Anger spurning, 

Setting all your 
Heart a-burning— 

This is Laura ; — 
God preserve her; 

Given for a 
Joy forever. 

144 



I^St^BgSSESa 



Sonnets, 



The Knight and the Lady. 
I. 




HE time, Queen Bess' wars with haughty 
Spain. 
The place, an English noble's country- 
seat; 
A sylvan nook as cool and shadow-sweet 
As forest-pools just after storm of rain. 
O'erhead, the sunlight, sifting through a lane 
Of leafy grill-work, touched the moss-green 

floor 
With fretted splendor, while a thrush-song 
tore 
Along the vibrant air like soul in pain. 

147 



Unto Love's tryst a radiant vision swept 
In regal robe of rose-pink silk brocade, 
With hands gripped o'er her heart, and 
halting tread, 
And eyes upraised, nor turned to right nor 
left. 
*'0, thrush, my thrush!" and here her foot- 
steps stayed, 
"Canst sing, and/, with heart-break dumb?" 
she said. 



148 



11. 

"My Lady!" low and sweet as love's caress. 
She slowly turned, her lovely face aglow 
From slender, milk-white throat to brow of 
snow, 
And saw a stately knight in rich court-dress 
Of violet satin, silver-laced. For stress 
Of daring deed, a knight renowned afar. 
Yet skilled in gentle dalliance. **0, star 
Of all my dreams! Wilt be through war's 

duresse. 
My Star of Bethlehem? My English rose!" 
He doffed his plumed chapeau and bent the 

knee. 
"Thy faithful knight doth crave thine acco- 
lade — 
Thy favor for his sword-hilt ere he goes, 
To wear as talisman on land and sea, 
And e'en in death, if that debt, too, be paid." 

149 



III. 

With quick intake of breath, she, trembling, 
tore 
A knot of rose-pink velvet from her dress 
And dropped it in his palm; and then 
through stress 
Of love as pure as any maid's of yore, 
She stooped and gave her accolade — a lore 
As old as Time and sweet as honey-dew. 
"But O, my knight! my heart will break for 
you" 
With moaning cry. He sprang erect, pressed 

sore 
With her dire woe, and crushed her to his 
heart. 
" My own — my only love- — my dearest dear!'* 
He bent and three times kissed the red, red 
mouth. 
Then speechful silence as when loved ones part 
In death. At last with words of dauntless 

cheer 
He leapt his charger and rode, wind-like, 
South. 

150 



The Blind Child. 




ER hair is like a sheaf of ripened wheat, 
Slow-kissed to gold by harvest sun 

and moon, 
When every lyric songster sings in 
tune, 
And meadow-brooks trip past with tinkling 

feet. 
Her eyes— so wonder-wide, so heaven-sweet, 
And blue as God's star-pastures are — 
His meadow-lands so vast and far, — 
Doth burn with eager questioning replete 
With sorrow sharper than a dagger's blade. 
"Will I be blind in heaven?" with dripping 

tears. 
"O, Heart's Desire!" I cry with sobbing 
words, 
" Up there you^ll see all beauty God has made." 
And when dawn tip-toes up the east she 

hears 
Her lightest step and wakens with the birds. 

151 



Daybreak. 




EAR heart, how sweetly thou didst go 
away ! 
The dawn was stepping softly up the 
East ; 

Her trailing robes of rose and amethyst 
Were pinned by one great star, that, burning, 

lay 
Upon her breast like a fire-opal. Say, 
Beloved, did star-fingers beckon thee ? 
Thine iris-lidded eyes slow drew from me 
Their steadfast gaze, a-light with that new day 
Just breaking on thy gentle spirit's vision — 
Straight caught the blazing star that held 

them fast 
While all thy lovely face shone angel-wise 
With that supernal light from fields elysian. 
Thou didst not speak, but drifted home at 

last. 
With that deep smile — the sweetest of good- 
byes. 

152 




Her Bridal, 

HE slept. And yet it was her bridal 
day 
Of days. They robed her in her wed- 
ding dress 
Of frosted silver. Its loveliness 
Was like moonlight upon hoar-frost. She lay 
So still — her face a little turned away 

Towards the East; on it a radiance shone 
As if she had not walked that way alone, 
But saw a vision that would last alway. 
The fast-shut lips a story could unfold, 

That's baffled all the wise men of all years; 
The secret, that has never yet been told — 
Groped after blindly and with unavailing 
tears. 
The bride of death. From round her couch 

perfume 
Of rich and rare exotics filled the room. 

153 



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